The Mindlessness of Intuition
by Clarenova
Summary: The reasoning of carnage behind being a hare. The reasoning of carnage behind being a human. The carnage of intuition. Salamandastron exposed. Finished. Final edited version newly uploaded.
1. What of Discovery

The Mindlessness of Intuition, Part I 

Disclaimer: Everything save Clar, Widepaw, Clambrithe, Sandfur, Cleft, Vande and the idea that this fic is based upon is copyright Brain Jacques. 

A/N: Written for the Chris Bradford competition on the RFF. Final edited edition. 

Warning Notes: AU, dark. Really dark. 

* 

Major Clambrithe. One of the most celebrated hares known to Salamandastron in recent, or maybe ancient history. Showing brilliance in every aspect known to classify a high-ranking Salamandastron hare - dutiful, mindful and possessing an incredible survival instinct. In Salamandastron, everyone had to have a survival instinct. Those who did not too oft ended up dead. It was just the way of the world, the sacrifices made for the job of which they were obliged to take up. As guardians, as protectors, as the buffers of Mossflower. 

'Do you think they will ever realize it?' 

'Never. Not yet, at any rate. Not us.' 

'It's been this way for ages, major.' 

'It would be best that it stays this way.' 

Silence. 

'Why the farce? Why the slang, the "wot" and the "bally" and the entire flippant attitude?' 

Silence. 

'You'll understand someday.' 

* 

Clambrithe sighed, looking at the young hares prepared to go for their first march. Filled with pride and joy and youthful exuberance. It was almost nauseating. Bright eyes. Often dimmed within the first seasons of combat. Voices, always clear, always tainted. It was disgusting. Clambrithe turned away to face his sergeant, smiling. 

'They'll be fine.' 

* 

Lord Widepaw. Feared and exalted, having the cleanest record of any badger ruler on the mountain for a good while. Searats rarely managed to infiltrate past the River Moss now. Sands were often stained red. Only the sands, though. Clambrithe walked into the forge, soundless and at attention. The majestic, moralistic, upright badger lord turned to face him, motioning him into a seat and pressing a large paw to a glass encased map of Mossflower. Clambrithe's eyes traced every well known contour, each landmark, the familiar outline of the shores that he had lived patrolling all his life. There. There. And there. Everywhere. Blood had been spilt there. That was the place where two of the youngest cadets had died not a few weeks back. And there. He had nearly been killed there, once, long ago. He looked up simply. Not really sure whether his eyes looked alive, attentive. Maybe they looked dead. He had been hiding for so long already, from Redwallers, from Mossflower citizens, that he was not sure whether his mask ever slipped. A smile, it must have been a smile, edged around his lips. 

'Yes, sah?' 

Almost cringing. Echoes of that useless slang that usually slipped and disappeared whenever hares meant business. It was a farce. A well planned farce, but a farce none the less. A screen used to hide the real truth that lurked behind flippant attitudes and easy speech. Widepaw's expression did not change. The paw traced a path. Clambrithe knew that path. One of the longer patrol routes, moving back and forth along the shore. The heavy tone, _monotone?_, of Widepaw's voice was not comforting. 

'Sandfur and his brother, Cleft. You know them?' 

Sandfur, Cleft. They sounded familiar. Ah. Yes. The intuitive ones. The ones who thought something was wrong with the entire scheme of things on the mountain. Two who did not understand the lack of fear. Two who actually comprehended the true meaning of death before it hit them. Already thinking of them in past tense. 

'Trained under me a two season back, sah.' 

Widepaw nodded, tapping a region that come near Mossflower country. 

'There. They've been missing for neigh a week. I would have you look into it.' 

Clambrithe nodded seriously. Or maybe wearily. It was sickening. An endless cycle. Voices, endless voices. Never to be heard again. _Think of the Redwallers. Think of others._ Always repeated. A masochistic self-sacrifice. Clambrithe exited the forge with that thought on his mind. _May they never know this carnage._

* 

Armed. Always armed and ready. He was alive yet. Clambrithe walked alone, eyes darting from side to side, never loosing track of his surroundings, noting everything. A bird, somewhere far to the east. The sound of running water nearby. The scattered sand that did not come from the winds. The cool shade of the trees did not distract him. Like a trapped doe, every fibre of his being resonated, every vein inflamed with the possibilities of what lay around the next corner. 

A humourless smile graced his lips. 

Death, of course. 

He parted two large ferns. And stared. 

'Who the hell are you?' 

Something Clambrithe had never seen before. Standing slightly shorter than him, holding a crossbow. Loaded. It appeared to be a she. Lanky, with paws he had never seen before. The usually short digits were long, curled defensively around her weapon. Eyes and a nose that made her facial features appear nothing like any species he had yet come across. Brown eyes that looked black. And a long flowing fur. But only at the top of her head. Dressed differently from anything he had ever seen before. Something out of this world. 

And at her feet, Sandfur and Cleft. Dead, of course. The folly of youth. 

'Who the hell are you?' 

The question repeated. A slang unknown to Clambrithe. His sword never moved from its position in his paw as the creature, _vermin_, continued staring at him with panicky eyes. His heart never fluttered. There was only calm. A raised eyebrow. 'What does it matter to you? What are you, what manner of evil spawned you?' 

Panicked eyes became angry. 

'I am not evil.' 

Clambrithe motioned casually to the two bodies on the ground. A mere inclination of his head. _I knew them_. The two dead bodies. _I knew myself_. 

'Neither were they.' 

'I am not evil.' 

'You killed.' 

'It's called self-preservation.' 

'They were not evil.' 

Silence greeted his words. The strange creature stared at him. Obviously not accustomed to battle. Obviously having had an advantage of range and surprise over the two dead hares. Young. Not from Mossflower. Maybe from someplace far away. Clambrithe sheathed his sword. The quarrel was slowly loosed from the crossbow. Wary eyes followed him as he pushed his way into the small glade. Well disguised. He would not have noticed it if not for the trail of blood from outside. It had been faint, but it was there. A fire pit. Ashes. Scattered berries. The smell of meat. Vermin-fodder. Clambrithe narrowed his eyes. The vermin in question leaned against a tree. 

'Who are you?' 

No more cursing. A careful front. 

'Major Clambrithe.' 

Something akin to fear flashed across her face. Fear of the Long Patrol. Of course. Feared by vermin everywhere. Maybe not just vermin. The crossbow was griped tighter, but remained unloaded. 

'Why are you here?' 

Clambrithe made no answer. The creature looked at him. Understanding shone for a moment in her eyes. 

'A Salamandastron hare, then.' 

A quick nod. 

'I am Clar.' 

'I am rather more interested in _what_ you are.' 

'A human.' 

'A human? Something that I have never heard of before.' 

'Not unlikely.' 

The human looked scared. _You ought to be._

'You killed them.' 

Clar looked down at the dead. 

'Are Long Patrol hares as merciless in battle as they say?' 

They, always they. 

'We uphold justice. We have our ways.' 

Clar looked up at him. There was some spark of quick intelligence in those eyes. Clambrithe leaned against his own tree. The two studied each other for a moment. Clar continued looking at him. 

'Did they tell it to you outright, then? "Give up your lives so that others can live?" Or do they throw you into the world, and hope, or maybe not hope, that you find that out yourselves?' 

Clambrithe's body did not twitch, as badly as his mentality wanted to. It was a reflex action, to calm himself, to stop himself from showing any outward signs of perturbation. It acted as an advantage. Always be emotionless when dealing with potential enemies. There had been no words exchanged. Clambrithe had a feeling that this Clar knew more than she should. 

'All of us know what our job entails.' 

Clar's eyes, frightened eyes, darted to the felled hares. 

'Did they know?' 

'We are sworn to protect.' 

'Do you know what you kill?' 

'Vermin.' 

Clar paused. 

'Am I vermin, then?' 

'You have killed.' 

'They tried to kill me. It's called self-preservation.' 

There it was again. Self-preservation. Maybe something that Clambrithe himself should have considered a long while ago. Clar continued. 

'I've seen your kind. You kill, and continue to kill, all that you so classify as "vermin".' 

Clambrithe shrugged. It was almost nonchalant. 

'We do what we must. Our actions are justified. You pose a threat.' 

'What threat?' 

Clambrithe paused. 

'Maybe your intuition.' 

A odd sense of a possessive defence sparked. 

'It is a gift. Or so they said. Giftedness.' 

Something akin to bitterness in her tone. Cynical humour in his own voice. 

'A gift to kill, then?' 

'Self-preservation. They would have done more than merely confront me. They would think as you think. I would be dead before I had the chance to explain.' 

_Oddly like myself._

'You kill.' 

His own argument starting to sound futile in his ears. Clar nodded. Agreed. 

'Where I come from, all humans kill, in one way or another. Greed. Lust. Need for power.' 

A pause. 

'Blatant stupidity.' 

Another pause. A sigh. 

'Endless wars. Wealth. Sadism. Rape. Slaughter of kin.' 

Clar shrugged. 

'Nothing very unusual. And mental clarity.' 

A sneer. 

'They call it a gift, then they ridicule. A jealousy, I suppose. They classify the talented, or the _assumed_ talented, and then they ridicule them. Always wanting what they can never have. Or something that never existed, maybe. There is no "giftedness".' 

Clambrithe did not say a word, only pushing himself up from his position and standing properly. Clar looked up at him and grinned faintly. 

'They call it a gift.' 

Clambrithe's expression did not change. He motioned out of the glade and towards Salamandastron. 

'You had best come with me.' 


	2. What of Understanding

The Mindlessness of Intuition, Part II 

Disclaimer: Nothing save what is mine is mine. 

A/N: Gah. No time to write these days. Final edited edition. 

* 

It would not be a swift journey back to Salamandastron. Mossflower was three days away with clear skies even for experienced travellers, but with this human on his paws, Clambrithe knew it would be at least a week before he returned. _Will I, too, be considered dead by then?_ The major almost smiled at the notion. Imagined the hushed whispers. The lies that would spawn from his assumed disappearance. He did not blame them. Not in this society. Not in his society. The notion of a hubbub somehow appealed to Clambrithe, appealed to a darker side of him that he knew he should not let loose. 

Clar learnt fast, or at least decently quickly. Few words were exchanged. There was little harassment from either party. Sitting together under the dark cloak of night, running together beneath the scrutiny of day, the two barely spoke. At least not verbally. Clambrithe wondered if his companion knew the real truth behind the madness that was the Long Patrol. Or if it was truly merely intuition. Three nights had passed, and four days. The waves crashed silently against the already beaten shore. Reminding Clambrithe, once again, oddly of himself. He cursed his own introspection. It would only lead to a quick demise and a high chance of insanity. They watched. The ocean said nothing to them. Clambrithe inclined his head from his position on the sand. 

'Why did you come?' 

Not moving. Neither looking at the other. Almost afraid to look in parallel mirrors. Mirrors of a different sort, showing a fate of different sorts. A mad subversion on both sides. Physically and mentally. Perhaps both. Clar shrugged. Clambrithe wondered how many times he must have had shrugged in response to questions himself. Wondered how many times his easy but false smile reassured a number of younger hearts that needed something more than the blade that eventually ended up impaling their hearts. How many times a death had been turned away with a deceptive tear and another notch on an invisible wall. How many walls had they covered? How many walls were waiting still? How many rooms? What sanctuary remained of their stronghold, built from bones? Were the walls closing in? Clar shrugged again, though not knowing why. 

'Intuition. Instinct. Survival.' 

_Folly._

Clambrithe made no comment. The waves continued to crash. They had always reassured him. Wind ruffling his fur, quietly soothing him. The salt in the air keeping him awake. Every fibre of his being concentrated on his surroundings, but his mind wandered. A battle within himself, a battle he had sworn he had long put behind him. A time had finally come, a time when he had to consider his line of work, the integrity of what he did, the truth behind all the carefully veiled lies. Another question found the tip of his tongue, regardless of his protesting conscience. But his actions, his deviant actions. Always betraying himself, always adhering to the motions and lessons that he had ingrained in his memory. Each action bordering surrealism, each action bringing Clambrithe past frontiers both psychological and bodily. Every movement he made was registered in his dull mind, checked and put away, but never paid attention to. A war of mentalities, the age old battle of logic versus intuition, heart versus mind, was brought to the forefront. His consciousness wavered on three planes, co-existing, detaching the major from everything. It numbed all senses save for those he needed, froze all time and broke all barriers. 

'Should I let you go?' 

Another crash of brine. Madness. Answers that he needed proof for. 

'Would it matter?' 

Of course it would matter. Clar's gaze was still fixed on the stars. It always mattered. Every action, every word. They always assumed. It had to matter. If it did not, no one would have died. Not one would have needed to kill or be killed. If it never mattered, nothing would exist. Then again, nothing would die, either. 

Clambrithe closed his eyes after another long lapse of silence. Clar was already asleep. Clambrithe considered sleeping with his eyes open. Somehow, he doubted it would affect him. Maybe he already was. 

* 

Clambrithe opened his eyes more out of habit than choice. Dark skies greeted him, woefully foretelling unfavourable weather. Dawn approached, fog and all. A thick layering of mist rose from the sands, the damp conditions depressing. The human slept soundly next to him. Eyes closed, body relaxed, breathing even. Ignorant of her surroundings. Vulnerable. Inexperienced. Young. _How old?_ A sudden rustling of fabric from nearby, barely noticeable, caused the Long Patroller to tense. Something hiding in the early gloom and fog. The hare stiffened, paw already on his sword. Searats. Clambrithe swerved to the left, an action born more of habit than choice, slitting a waiting neck, snarling as he came up. Two more. The major smiled as the blood dripped off the metal. A feral smile, a demon that he fought to push back. His sword glinted. 

Clar woke up to the smell of copper and death. The major was sitting calmly on a large rock, wiping his sword clean with a neutral - there was no other word for it - expression on his face. The sands were red. Three bodies lay around her in their own sort of slumber. Eyes closed. Not born of habit, and neither of choice. The human winced, the gore causing nausea to well at the back of her throat. Clambrithe looked up and at her, nothing - no grief nor pain nor emotion - in his blue-grey eyes. 

'We had best get moving.' 

Clar stood up. Shaky legs did not support her well enough. She felt the brittle sand contact with her knees as she fell, trying to shut her fascinated eyes. 

'Why?' A hoarse question from cold lips. A smile, it must have been a smile, edged around his lips. 

'I thought you knew.' 

'I do not.' 

'Self-preservation.' 

* 

On the seventh day, they arrived. Clar felt hunted as she finally stepped into the clean-cut corridors of the famed Fire Mountain. Curious eyes, callous eyes, always watching, washed over her. From every corner and every room. She knew that no matter where she walked, haunting, _or haunted?_, eyes would be following her, always monitoring her. Clambrithe walked ahead with an air of one used to scrutiny and fear. 

_Is this what he feels like when he goes to places like Redwall?_

The human did not know whether to feel chilled or smug. Clambrithe was so much like she assumed he would be, yet somewhat different. Not altogether immune to the ideas that completely idolized yet contradicted his survival as a hare, but then again almost indifferent to the actions that condemned others. The major steered past so many corridors, each housing families, a warmth that Clar knew had not yet been exposed to the reality of their lives. Curious, innocent eyes peered from behind homely doors, badly hidden smiles gracing young features. Not so much younger than her, Clar suspected. Some maybe even older. 

Clambrithe pushed her into a large room. The forge. Clar had read enough to know of it. The anvil that had broken in so many pieces of metal, tempering them into blade and armour. Broken in like the owners they went to, a liquid metal hardened like the hearts of each hare that spilt liquid blood. Innocent steel tainted, formed into weapons of war. 

_Just like them. Pawns in a larger game._

Widepaw stood waiting. Clar felt like a ritualistic sacrifice. 

Clambrithe inexplicably felt his body tense. The badger lord did not seem look upon the human favourably, yet there was no trace of malice in his eyes. Then again, Clambrithe knew that, like him, there was rarely anything in the eyes of the badger lord. Eyes revealed too much to be safely allowed to show emotion. He felt his temperament flicker slightly as his eyes, his own long-dead, cold blue eyes flit towards Clar for an instant. Did she have to hide like this? Did everybeast else have to hide the way he did? Did all those _humans_ have to hide? Clambrithe wondered who knew more of his life; the child or himself. 

_Child. Child or murderer?_

At least not a murderer born and bred. At least still a child. 

Not like them. 

Not like him. 

Clambrithe fought the urge to shake his head. Self-pity was not an emotion he needed at the moment. Pity was not an emotion he ever needed, not while he killed, not while he did what he was meant to do. Brought up to do, at any rate. The major was not too sure if there was a difference between the two anymore. So many odd contradictions he never bothered with, his eyes opened to a world he could not see. 

Widepaw let his eyes wash over the odd creature in front of him. To her credit, Clar neither faltered nor winced, even though the badger lord noted trembling arms and a tightened jaw. Eyes trained a centimetre past the side of his face, a tactic used to avoid eye contact. She was frightened. She was amongst the Long Patrol, yet she was frightened. Somehow, Widepaw doubted that it was because of guilt. If not for guilt, then for...? 

For the Long Patrol, of course. Known killers, known assassins. Openly declaring their duty and decision. Or maybe because of something that she had done. Clambrithe was at her side, a respectful distance away, hovering as he always did. A lithe, anonymous figure, waiting to be called upon. Widepaw turned away from the human and nodded to the major. Clambrithe walked up to him, his smooth, if slightly monotonous, voice retelling the encounter to the badger lord in his usual hushed manner. Widepaw frowned slightly, his mind working to sort out the equations of the problem. 

Clambrithe was not confident that his voice had not wavered; this situation irked him more than he wanted to allow. Clar was an aggravation he intended to solve - if not end. Maybe not so much an aggravation but a chance. A chance, a leeway, an opening, a - a... a... a... an opportunity. Something. Anything. 

Clambrithe did not know why he felt so desperate, the sudden surge of emotion surprising himself. 

Looking past the badger lord's shoulder at the many weapons, Clambrithe found himself hoping that his blade would not spill blood - at least not this once. Blue eyes flickered back to Clar again, finding the human child fidgeting and squirming. Not the blade, then. Something more, for a change. The mindlessness of intuition. Time to return the favour. 


	3. What of Control

The Mindlessness of Intuition, Part III 

Disclaimer: Nothing that I do not own is mine. 

A/N: Have I anything to say? Nothing beyond apologies for the delay. Final edited edition. 

* 

To say Clar was nervous was something of a drastic understatement. The human - or at least that was what Clambrithe thought she was - was silent, but there was panic in her eyes. Clambrithe had seen it more than once before, and had been the cause for it for as long as he cared to remember. 

This panic. This innate fear, this _need_ to run away. Why was she so afraid? Why was _he_ so afraid? This thing would not affect him - he had done his duty. His position was in no jeopardy, and no more lives were at stake. But yet Clambrithe felt _frightened_, for the first time in a long, emotionless while, _frightened_. Something was happened, something odd and something inexplicable, and somehow it had come to be centred around that one child. A child! 

Clambrithe felt close to hysterical, but his face did not show it. His eyes darkened a shade, but that was all that betrayed his conflicting emotions. Nothing. No words, no gestures, no _life_. Widepaw seemed to be doing the same, exerting his laconic control over the situation. 

'You come from where...?' the badger lord inquired in that decorous, patronizing tone that Clambrithe had heard many times before in the past. It was one that brooked little to no argument, and one that demanded above all else honesty. Truth. Fact. Not intuition. It was a tone that belied little tolerance. It was a tone used for the enemy. 

'A place far away,' Clar responded, as evenly as she could. Clambrithe knew better. 'A place not from here. A place in another world.' 

'And you expect me to believe that?' 

The badger's eyebrows were mockingly raised, playful. Taunting. The human looked strained to the point of breaking, what little of her remaining composure draining off as quickly as the blood from her face. Clambrithe decided to step in. 

'I do not think she knows how she came to be here, my lord.' 

'Do not interfere with this, Jonathan.' 

An order. Clambrithe stepped duly aside. 

'I don't know, all right? I'm not sure why, or how, I came to be here! I don't _have_ your answers!' 

The hysteria was clearly in her voice now, in her almost shrill tone. Clambrithe noted it with almost dull appreciation; this one had far from perfected the art of reeling in her emotions. The major let his eyes fall to sweep the floor. There was shame in that gaze, shame for this sorry... something. Widepaw was now openly sceptical, warning inflected in his tone. 

'You killed two of our number, and you claim you do not have answers?' 

'They were going to kill me first!' 

'They would not have attacked if they hadn't been provoked.' 

'I did nothing of that sort!' 

'Then what did you do?' 

The calm versus the crazed. Clambrithe knew who was going to win this argument. 

'I...' 

Clar did not seem to have an answer herself. 

'I don't know. I did nothing.' 

Widepaw regarded the human closely once more. Clar now openly faltered, falling back a step. Clambrithe almost felt pity. 

Widepaw's eyes dilated suddenly, and something in the room crackled. The major started. It was a sign, a clear sign. Badgers had always been magical beasts, prophetic animals. And something intuitive, something in the back of his mind, something warned Clambrithe. But by the time Widepaw's eyes were opened once more to the world, it was too late. 

Clar had changed. She was no longer the _human_, the _thing_, she was now clearly, most evidently, vermin. In front of the stunned, if jaded, Clambrithe stood a ferret. Widepaw allowed a growl to hitch up the back of his throat. 

'Take her to the cells, major. I will hold council tonight.' 

Clar did not seem to hear the words. Her face, newly contorted, was pale with shock. Her paws trembled with disbelief. 

'What...?' 

Clambrithe heard the quiver in the question. He knew it from the countless numbers of young leverets, fresh from their first kill. It was the frontier that bordered fevered screaming, that edged upon madness and complete loss of control. 

Clar was weak. Clearly vulnerable. There seemed no strength left in her limbs, no more resolve in her words. No conviction. She was close to screaming, close to tearing and howling and turning into some wild thing. But no. There was a need for control, now more than ever, a need for _control. _Clar tried to stop the oncoming heady rush of emotion. Clambrithe had long secured himself to her side and was now bodily dragging her down to the cells, to some prison in the core of this gigantic, hostile mountain. 

Clar was lost. Clar was utterly, completely and entirely out of her element. She knew nothing. Her limbs refused to obey. Her mind was blank, almost beyond her perception. Everything had gone insane. Her world was surreal. Nothing was right. 

Clambrithe said nothing, but continued to drag the ferret down, down, down into hell. 

'Focus,' he hissed in her ear, and Clar started. 

'What's going on? What's happened to me?' 

There was a whimper in her voice. 

'Maybe you have become what you were meant to be,' Clambrithe muttered darkly as he descended the final flight of stairs, heaving her down the steps. Clar shook her head in denial. 

'I'm nothing. I'm _not like this_. What am I?' 

'You're supposed to tell me!' Jonathan finally lost his composure. Something had broken, something had snapped. Something had seared through the strings and clogs and barbed wire, something was burning, eating away at him. '_You_ are the one that came stumbling into _my_ life, and _you_ are the one that is supposed to be telling _me_ just _why_ you have turned into a _ferret_!' 

He tossed her into her cell. The torches lighted in the underground area made the shadows on his face flicker madly. Jonathan's eyes were a deep, deep blue. He was drowning. He no longer knew what was _right_. 

Clar, momentarily jolted out of her shock, flung herself against the bars of her cell. Of her cage. 

'I'm not an animal. You can't keep me like this!' 

'Well, I'm not an animal either, Clar!' he snapped before he realized what he had said. 'But I'm kept! So keep your intuition and words, and keep your silence and rages! I do not understand this any more than you do!' 

Jonathan knew he had to regain control. This was so desperately _wrong_. He wanted something, wanted to dig deeper than he was allowed to go. Wrong. Wrong. So _wrong_. He had to _stop_ his involvement, reattach himself to what he was meant to be and stop trying to _understand_. This was not his affair to _meddle_ with. 

But Jonathan knew, also, that it was too late. Clambrithe had finally slipped, and Jonathan had come out. The madness was causing him to stagger, to _fall_. It was rendering him slowly defenceless. He had known this creature, this human, this ferret, this vermin, this child, this _thing_ for less than a month, yet she was _eating_ at him like a disease. His breath came heavily and in rushed gasps as Jonathan backed up against the far wall. 

Clar clawed at the restraints. 

'Then let yourself _go_, Jonathan! Do not hold back on whatever it is, whatever _control_ you so desperately need! You will kill yourself! Emotion isn't meant to be locked away in whatever corner of your mind that you stifle it in! You have to _understand_. You have to. Not while everyone else is so blinded. I see it in their eyes! They do not _understand_. They are _prisoners_, Jonathan! More than I am! More than _you_ are!' 

'Shut up,' Jonathan muttered, more to himself than to Clar. He pushed himself upright with the support of the wall. 'Shut up,' he repeated, more firmly. 'Don't call me that. You cannot _begin_ to understand. You do not even _know_ me.' 

'Perhaps I know you better than you know yourself, how about that?' 

Clar was almost screaming. Jonathan could not understand her odd speech, her strange vernacular. But there was intuition. The major righted himself and pulled his tunic back in place. 

'I do not want your words, Clar.' 

All formality returned. Some precious measure of control regained. Clambrithe backed away and headed for the door. 

'You want my words, Clambrithe!' Clar shouted at him from behind the bars of her identity. 'You just don't want my _pity_!' 

Clambrithe slammed the door to the cells behind him as he ran up, back up, up, up to the heaven of his duty. To the heaven of his understanding, to the place where things made sense. Clambrithe ran, but there were questions, questions, always more _questions_. 

For a moment, Clambrithe was not sure where hell really lay. But he ran, and Clambrithe ran, and Jonathan was running away.   



	4. What of Release

The Mindlessness of Intuition, Part IV 

Disclaimer: See the chapter before the chapter before the last. 

A/N: Mustwritefaster, timeisrunningout! Final edited edition. 

* 

Clar sat in her cell. The walls were cold, so cold. She could not feel herself. The walls were cold. There was so little room for thought, so little room for control. She could not feel the breath of air that passed across her face in the endless still, felt no end, no end to this lack of intuition. Clar had never felt this before: the need to listen to reason before intuition. But there were bars. Endless bars that kept her from that privilege. The barrier of body and spirit, a hurdle. The walls were cold, and Clar felt it acutely. The cold scent of death, bleak death. 

* 

Words. Words meant nothing to Clambrithe. They were beneath him; words were the advocates of devils that haunted his soul. Words were a necessary evil, for communication, but never for understanding. For, he thought cynically, what words could express the damage of death? Words left him bereft of soul. Whatever remained of his own soul. Clambrithe wanted to save it. Save himself. Save his own soul. What words could express the loss of one's sanity? Not in this world. Not where words held no substance. For so long, a silver of death could speak far more than words. Blade and blood. 

_Want my pity, want my pity, want my pity._

Then why did those words echo so? How could something so trivial as _words_ mar his sense of direction, of _duty_? Jonathan. It seemed surreal that he, Jonathan, had succumbed to such a weakness. Not Clambrithe, but Jonathan. 

Another whisper of thought. Just another conscientious thought. One among the millions that had passed before it. Not words. Not thought. What? What _folly_? What fault? 

_I see it in their eyes. In their eyes. Their eyes._

I see it too. Some part of it screamed, I see it too. 

* 

Clambrithe leaned against his windowsill, watching the sea. The sea continued still, untroubled by his doubts. The ocean said nothing to him. 

'Jonathan.' 

Clambrithe turned shortly, a dark light in his eyes. Another hare stood at his doorway. 'Colonel.' A short nod of acknowledgement to his mentor. 

'Jonathan, your mind weighs heavy.' 

Such intuition once more. Clambrithe felt enclosed. Whom could he trust? Clar. A ferret, human, thing. He had known her for a month. Yet this substance, this sudden upsurge of emotion, emotion at long last.Then there was the colonel. A hare he had put faith and trust in. Endless seasons of learning. 

Learning. Lessons on how to end life. Death. 

Clambrithe did not know. Could never know, not in this life. Not when torn between the wars of his own sanity. 

Colonel Vande. Clambrithe had known him since childhood. It was he who taught Clambrithe how to use his first blade. It was he who brought Clambrithe through the trials of childhood. It was he who had shaped Clambrithe, shaped him into one of the most prestigious majors in the history of Salamandastron. It was to him that Clambrithe turned to. To him that Clambrithe had expressed his fears and hopes. It was he who had set Clambrithe on this path. He who made sure Clambrithe fulfilled it with the grace that was demanded of him. 

'Colonel.' 

A question and an answer. 

_Let yourself go, Jonathan._

_Let yourself go._

* 

The meeting commenced that night. The air was stifling, beyond life. It was death in that room, death and animosity. It was a council of death, a council of necromancy and lunacy. No intuition. What life could be led that way, without intuition? Jonathan, oh Jonathan. He demanded release, demanded to breathe free air. Not this death, not this death. Widepaw's face still remained serene. What serenity in death? What serenity in feeling the cold walls of your madness fill you? Trap you. Death, Jonathan, it whispered. Death. 

They were immersed in relative debate. Widepaw uttered the words. 'She must be killed.' 

'No.' 

The entire table turned to face him. Clambrithe felt the chains of eternity embrace him. Fell forward into infinity. Fell freely. Fell with the grace of liberation. 

'No.' 

'Jonathan, you've gone mad.' 

'No. No, not her.' 

Jonathan felt the key in his pocket. The key to his life. The key to his freedom. 

He ran. Clambrithe ran, Jonathan ran, and for that moment he was running away. 

'Jonathan!' 

_Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan._

* 

'Clar, Clar.' 

Clar jerked away from the bars. Spun wildly, unsure. Jonathan. She could see Jonathan there. Not Clambrithe, never Clambrithe. This was Jonathan Clambrithe, not Major Jonathan Clambrithe. This was salvation. This was freedom. This was _truth_, spoken so plainly. 

'Jonathan,' she cried. The bars fell away suddenly, and she stumbled out of the cold on feet she still could not use. 'Cold,' she whispered, 'Too cold.' 

'No death,' he whispered back. 'No death. Not death. Never.' 

Fervour. Fear. Freedom. Jonathan felt them all. Felt. Felt for this first time since he could remember to feel. Lived, lived for a moment and burned. Burned with this need. 

They came. Widepaw at the front, Vande barely a step behind him. 

Jonathan and Clar clutched at each other, entwined in a moment of destiny, bound only by intuition. Such mindlessness. No questions, not any more, not in this dark. The dark welcomed them. No death in this dark. Never. 

'Jonathan, are you mad?' 

'Maybe,' he murmured back, blue eyes not meeting the colonel's. Bright blue eyes of life. Jonathan was not sure from where his composure was derived. 'Maybe, but I am free.' 

'Free? Jonathan, you've been bewitched! This thing has murdered your sense of mind!' 

'Not murdered,' Jonathan said quietly, eyes on the floor. They flickered to meet Vande's gaze for a fleeting instant. 'You did that for me, colonel.' 

'Major Clambrithe!' 

Widepaw was outraged. There it was. The need to succumb. The need to follow the path he had faithfully trod for the past years of his life. No. Not when this level of life was in his grasp. His. His alone, his life. Never. No pain of death could take that from him. 

'Look at her, my lord. Do you see death?' 

Widepaw's eyes never shifted off his own. His own blue eyes, made of pale ice. Melting ice, revival, strength, colder than even the fever of demise. 

'Clambrithe, move away.' 

'Look, my lord.' 

Widepaw's eyes flickered. Only for a moment. But Jonathan held some of his trust. Clambrithe had held some of that for a long time. Years of service, of eternal, internal bleeding. Jonathan demanded payment. Demanded it. Felt Clar shiver in his arms, shiver in their perverse circle of trust. 

'Jonathan.' 

'Look at her, sir. Look at her and tell me she deserves to die.' 

_Yes._ The words breathed life back into him. _I want these words_. 

There was a silence. The shadows broke and surged in the flicker of the candlelight. The only illumination in the cells, the only warmth. Clar trembled in his embrace again. Then she spoke. 

'I don't know death. I know only my intuition. I know only my saving graces. Only this integrity.' 

Hysteria. That trembling was hysteria. It burst forth in screams, in sobs, in quaking shoulders. 

'Do you think I want this? Are you so mad to assume that if I even had magic, I would want this? I could have killed Jonathan, but I didn't! I could have killed, killed you all, killed you with this madness in my soul. Killed you with only these ideas. Have you any notion? I never _needed_ to do that. You kill yourselves. You kill, and you kill without discrimination. You kill your _children_, you kill them and yet you never repent! How can you bear it? Bear this death! You send them to their doom.' 

'Clar, shh. Listen to yourself. Calm down.' 

They painted an odd picture. Clar, leaning on him for support, unsure of both body and mind. Foreign arms that were not hers curled about his waist, her face buried in the folds of his jacket. His own arms attempting to keep her standing, yet attempting to protect her. Protect her. From himself, from them, from everything. He needed it; needed this last remaining scrap of instinct. Survival. Self-preservation. Intuition. 

Jonathan saw the revulsion in the eyes of those who were - _had been_ - his friends, those who were - _had been_ - the people he had put his trust in. Already thinking of them in past tense. 

_Why?_

_I thought you knew._

Intuition. 

_Self-preservation._

Clar was sobbing into his shoulder. Jonathan could feel the tears. The tears for the all the bloodshed, tears he himself had never found the courage to cry. Jonathan felt it then. Felt her courage - this release. This release she had granted him. This release of emotion, of the bonds that held his mind in check. To him, if to no one else. She had risen above it, above everything. Clar had risen above him. No courage could symbolize this blind belief, this blind belief in intuition, in that which seemed most right. Above him. Jonathan let the first of his own tears fall.   



	5. What of Death

The Mindlessness of Intuition, Part V (Omega) 

Disclaimer: Not mine, will never be mine, but I play in the sandbox of doom anyway. 

A/N: This chapter is dark. Believe me when I say this chapter is dark. It is dark to the point where I almost believe that it may disqualify me from the competition altogether. But this is the way I intended it to end, and it is the way I will end it. You have been warned. Final edited edition. 

* 

Not even death. No death can kill those indebted to death. Years, years, endless, endless years. Jonathan gave up trying to avoid the pain. Gave up trying to quell it, understand it. It was no longer possible, no longer feasible. Intuition came across so purely now. Unadulterated. Liberating. It welcomed him, like cool black velvet against a raging inferno that burnt, singed so terribly that the very blackness of his heart was charred and left to fade, ashes, ashes, only ashes. 

It sang within his soul. A melody he longed to embrace, to lose himself in. A cold, icy facade where he could hide. Hide forever from his own mask of lies. Lies. 

_Lies. Lies._

Screaming. Endless screaming. He could not block it from his bleeding ears. 

_Lies. Lies. Lies_. 

Only increasing in volume, only more intense. Echoing down those endless corridors, down those endless corridors, corridors, corridors, corridors. 

How many corridors had he passed? How many innocent lives had he seen swept beyond them? How long had he clung on? How long? How many? How much? What innocence? What life remained? Only desolate corridors. The desolate corridors of his life, shrieking a song, a wail of death, handsome death. Beautiful death. 

'Do not let her die,' Jonathan rasped. 'Do not let me die.' 

Vande looked torn between disbelief and pity. There was no light in his eyes. They were dead, almost as dead as Clambrithe's own had once been, were, were not, no, no, never. Clambrithe's eyes never had pity in them. 

_Pity. You don't want my pity, pity, pity, you don't want my pity, you don't want my pity, you don't want my pity, you don't want my pity, you don't want... you don't want... you don't want... want... want... my... pity. Want my pity_. 

'Sir,' Jonathan cried, 'don't let her die.' 

'Jonathan,' the colonel replied, eyes finally flickering to life, black eyes finally showing some substance. Something. 'Jonathan, let go of her.' 

'Don't! No, no, no, not her.' 

Jonathan moved back, back, back, back until he contacted with the wall. Clar shivered in his arms even as he quaked, feeling. Feeling. Felt fear for the first time, emerging from the pool of madness in which he had submerged himself in, breathing air, real _air_. Gasping. 

'Jonathan, you do not even know who she is. What she is,' The colonel approached him, some form of compassion in the arms of duty Jonathan knew would be offered. Clambrithe shuddered. He knew that love, that love for duty, passion, that need to do what was _right_. Jonathan screamed, screamed in his mind, screamed even though he knew nobody could hear. 

'Neither do you,' he whispered. 'Neither do you.' 

'Don't give us humanity,' Clar said from where she was, 'You do not know what humanity entails.' 

* 

They moved the discussion up to the Forge. Jonathan stood, lifeless, next to an almost catatonic Clar. Staring at his life through a pane of silvered glass. A distorted mirror, seen through time, seen through an evolution. The breeze from the window scented the ocean. The ocean said nothing to him. 

_I was like that, part of him muttered, I was death when death was all I had to give._

'Jonathan, you have to see the insanity of this. That thing that stands next to you has magic, Jonathan, a kind of magic that has never been seen. Dangerous magic.' 

'No, sir, _you_ do not understand. She has only the magic to understand _intuition_. She understands _life_. Not death.' 

His own voice sounded strange. Sounded young, as if he were still under the tutelage of the phantom of the colonel that stood before him. Widepaw looked unimpressed. 

'She is a danger.' 

'_She_ is a danger? My lord, she is hardly a _child_!' 

Clar stirred. 

'Do not give me humanity, for you do not know what humanity entails.' 

Widepaw growled impatiently. 

'Humans. Humans do not exist.' 

Such futility. 

'My lord, she has done nothing to ail you.' 

'She has poisoned your _mind_, Jonathan!' 

_What was I? What am I?_

Major. Celebrated. Brilliance. Ranking. 

Dead. 

'No. No. No.' 

'Jonathan, you've gone mad.' 

'_No_,' Stammering now, blinded, fumbling. Lost. 'No. She cannot die.' 

'She _must_.' 

'_No!_' 

Jonathan almost threw himself across the table, crazed. Wanted to fight against the death, the death he had seen, the death he knew was coming, the mindlessness that sundered him, those whom death would leave sundered. 

The young ones, the leverets, those uneducated, ignorant, still alive. 

The patrollers, the officers, the dying and the dead. 

Everybeast. Everybeast who would suffer this injustice. 

'You cannot just allow us to _die_.' 

Vande threw him a startled look. 

'Jonathan...?' 

'You cannot allow us to _die_! Do you not you _understand_? This is death. Endless death.' 

'Enough.' 

Widepaw. He who knew best. 

'She has clearly driven you insane, major. She is a threat.' 

'She _liberated me_.' 

Clar finally spoke. 

'Do you understand? Do you understand what lives you have destroyed? How much blood has been spilled because of _you_?' 

Widepaw was unfazed. 

'How much more blood would have been spilt if not for the patrols?' 

'Less,' Clar said quietly. As if already accepting death. 'Less, for no souls would have died first.' 

Disjointed thoughts. How? Why? _Why?_

_Sandfur. Cleft. Vermin. Clar. Everyone. Death, death, death. Dying. Gone. Mindless._

'The mindlessness of intuition,' Jonathan abruptly said, breaking the tense silence that followed. Vande and Widepaw glanced at him. His blue eyes flickered, turned dark. Finally breaking the ice of detachment. Welcoming intuition. 'The mindlessness of intuition.' 

Glanced at the hare he had lived to make proud. Glanced at the badger lord he had sought to serve. Glanced at Clar. 

Major Jonathan Clambrithe turned to the window. 

_And he was running, and Clambrithe was running, and Jonathan was running away._

He jumped. 

Velvet death. Freedom. His soul sang. Rushing air. _Life._ Jonathan knew. _Not death._

For the first time, Clambrithe smiled. 

Clar turned away from the sand stained red. 

'Do not give me humanity,' she whispered again, 'For you do not know what humanity entails. Set them free.' 

They. Them. Those who had yet to die. The free. Liberation. 

'You're mad,' Vande whispered harshly. Shocked. Bereft. 

Clar cast her eyes to the shore, to the broken body that lay on bloodied sands. 

'Not mad. Mindless.' 

Life. Not death. 

* 

Heroism. Villainy. Clar provided one. 

Jonathan did not know. Did not need to know. 

He was free.   



End file.
